Wings
by skwishface
Summary: An exploration of Commander Shepard's identity as seen through the lenses of love, loss, and war. Mostly, I'm poking at bits of the story that felt incomplete during gameplay. **This story is currently on hiatus as I toil under other deadlines. Stay tuned for updates as soon as I'm able to return!**
1. Chapter 1 - A Very Nice Prison

The apartment was nice. Twice the size of her old cabin on the Normandy, with cheap government-issue furniture and narrow windows that could be opened to let in actual breezes of real Earth air. That had been a surprising luxury, likely allowed because the drop below the windows was a sheer plummet of twenty stories or more with no ledges or handholds of any kind. Not that she had been looking for escape routes; she just happened to observe this fact while admiring her fabulous view of the city.

The bed stubbornly refused to hum with the steady pulse of FTL drives, a fact which had led to a bout of insomnia that could only be defeated through rigorous application of single-malt scotch, but it was just the right size for one person and covered in fresh sheets every other day by a bustling little service mech with no vocalization module. A small kitchenette came furnished with a table and four chairs, seeming to imply that maybe she would have visitors. The size of her bed further implied that those visitors would not be the friendly sleep-over kind. She had ended up stacking three of the chairs and using them to stow her boots. It had never been a problem, because her only visitors were the service mech and her guards. Alliance Marines who were half in awe of their prisoner made for interesting jailers. They always offered to pass her requests for things like extranet access up the chain of command, and when they delivered the refusal they did it with a salute.

As incarcerations went, it was very polite. Damn near negligent. And terminally frustrating. She was a compulsive do-er with nothing to do but spend a lot of time alone with her thoughts.

_"I cannot explain the how of it, Siha," the rasp of his voice was like stones tumbling, "Perfect recall is not something that is _done_, it is something that simply _is_. Can you describe to me the exact process of human dreaming?"_

_In the darkness of her cabin, the cool light of the aquarium (occupied only by water and plants since she couldn't bring herself to forget another fish to death) made her hand glow like some deep sea creature as it traced idle fingertips along the ridge of his collarbone. Where her skin reflected the light, the fine scales of his seemed to absorb it, making him a creature of shadows and hush. "Sure I can. We fall asleep, then some time later the REM cycle kicks on and we dream."_

_He waited. So silent that only her ear against his chest told her that his heart still beat, his lungs still breathed … steady and clear, particularly since she'd asked EDI to filter her cabin's enviro-controls for minimum humidity. He waited, knowing she wouldn't be able to tolerate the inadequacy of her own answer for long. And he was right; she heard herself trying to explain, "REM cycle, as in Rapid Eye Movement." His smile was a smug shadow that earned him a poke in the ribs. "It's when our brains slip into … some kind of an active subconscious state that … makes our eyes move a lot? Okay fine, I have no idea how dreaming works."_

_Semi-fused fingers gently caressed her hair as he sagely intoned, "Admission of ignorance is the first step to enlightenment."_

_"I'm beginning to think you make up these little fortune cookie sayings just to mock me."_

_"Do not be ridiculous, Siha. I have no idea what a fortune cookie is." Nobody could do deadpan like an assassin._

_"Alright then, oh mysterious one," she flung the tangled sheet aside, sliding bare legs over his to sit astride his hips, "if you can't explain it, then maybe we can reverse engineer it."_

_"How do you propose we - " his words trailed off on a purring rumble as a flex of muscled thighs and a sway of spine brought their bodies deeply together._

_"Tell me, Thane," a gasp threaded her words, hips arching in time to the subtle urgings of strong hands, "How exactly will you remember … this?"_

A sharp knock at her door could only be one particular guard. Nobody else bothered to knock on a door that could only be opened from the outside by an omni-tool with the right security clearance. And nobody else ever seemed to interrupt her more, ah, private reveries.

"C'mon in, James," she called from where she leaned against her kitchen counter, holding a cup of coffee. She took a sip and sighed inwardly; it had gone cold at some point.

The door slid open to reveal Lieutenant James Vega. Well, most of him. The man was so big that he had to turn slightly sideways and duck his head a little to step through the door. He had a face like a boxer's fist, all scars and knobby bones designed to hurt people. Some guys had to put on their war face; for James, it was his default facial expression. If it was a mask, it was a good one. A hard one. For the past too-many weeks, she had amused herself by poking at that mask, trying to find out if there was anyone behind it but the pile of mean muscle he looked to be.

He stepped to the center of the room, boots surprisingly light on the tile floor, and snapped a salute. She returned it by lifting her mug. "You're not supposed to salute me, James. Remember?"

"Yes, Commander." He settled to standing at attention.

A long sip of (sigh, cold) coffee and an arched eyebrow let her play out the kind of silence that had been known to reduce enlisted hardasses to sweating schoolboys. James weathered it like a champ.

For about ninety seconds.

When she added a tiny slurp to her second sip of coffee, he broke. "Permission to ask a question, Commander?"

"James, I couldn't give you permission to submit to the force of gravity right now. You don't have to ask if you can ask. You can just ask."

One corner of his mouth twitched. She mentally chalked a point on her side of the imaginary scoreboard. The other side was for Cerberus, the Geth, the Reapers, and dumb bad luck. They had a lot more chalk marks on their side of the board than she did on hers, so every little victory counted. James cracked his neck to the left, flashing the slim outlines of an incomplete tattoo on his neck peeking out over the top of his uniform collar. His vertebrae sounded off like little gunshots, and the sound seemed to release him to stand at-ease.

"How d'you always know it's me at the door, ma'am?" His steady baritone was still as professionally cool as ever, but she didn't miss the relaxing of his syntax.

"I have contraband surveillance equipment placed at key points throughout this facility," she deadpanned, "The data feeds to various sub-dermal implants on my body."

He blinked. Frowned. "Security scans would've picked up anything like that."

She shrugged. "Only if they know where to look. I have to take off my left boot to check audio feeds."

James glanced down at the foot in question. His dark-eyed gaze was as frankly suspicious as his tone. "The left boot? … Ma'am."

Her nod was solemn, "You wouldn't believe what it takes to check video. I have to get two mirrors, go in the bathroom, and drop my -"

"Commander!" His hands were up in surrender, or to stop whatever she'd been about to say. Eyes wide, the big Marine looked downright scandalized, "You're shi- .. uh, kiddin' me, right?"

Tip of a wink, "Gotcha, Vega." He shook his head in disbelief, broad shoulders rolling like boulders as he braced hands on hips. She gave herself five more points on the scoreboard. Joker would've been proud. Pouring the coffee out into the sink helped cover the sudden pang of missing her mouthy helmsman. "Now. Surely there was some official reason for coming to see me today."

"Right," James didn't quite snap to attention, but it was close. "The Tribunal's convening, and they're requesting your presence."

Wry humor twisted her brow, "Again? It's nice when they say 'request'. Makes it sound like I can say no if I want to."

"Well, you _can_ say no, ma'am," James pointed out.

"But then you'd be obligated to change my mind."

"Ma'am."

They had one of those moments, where two people who know they're good take the measure of one another. James was huge, like a brick wall had become a person, but she hadn't missed how lightly he moved. He'd be quicker than he looked. Slabs of muscle along his back and across his waist spoke of someone who had trained mostly in heavy weapons, the kind that seemed hellbent on punishing you for pulling the trigger. Punches could rain down on that torso all day and he wouldn't feel a thing. In a hand-to-hand confrontation, she would have to move fast to incapacitate him and hope that he hadn't been briefed on the extent of the cybernetic upgrades added since her resurrection. Either that, or outlast him in the hopes that his endurance would give out before her heavy bone weave did.

A fight between herself and Lieutenant Vega would be nasty, brutish, and probably very short. Realistically, she gave herself even odds. Being locked up in this very nice apartment had her almost bored enough to want to pick that fight, if only for something new to think about. Ruthlessly, she squashed the impulse. Her crew were in the wind out there in a galaxy that was woefully, desperately unprepared for the war that was coming. The last thing she needed to do was give the Alliance any more excuses to distrust her.

Jaw set at a grim angle, she nodded to the door. "Lead on, James."

Whatever conclusions he had come to in his assessment of her were hidden behind the meathead Marine mask, firmly back in place. "Aye, Commander."


	2. Chapter 2 - Loyalty of Omission

There are ways to set the tone of a meeting before any words are spoken. Things can be done, from the arrangement of the furniture to the angles of the lighting, to give whatever impression the person calling the meeting intended to give. Home field advantage.

Shepard's first meeting with the Tribunal had been on board the Normandy, in a brightly-lit comm room with a roundish table and no chairs. In that room, everyone was clearly visible and equally uncomfortable. There was no place of precedence in that space, so long as the center of the room was being used for tactical displays rather than yet another infuriating conversation with the Illusive Man. The meeting had been a hurried affair, Alliance personnel scrambling to react to the news that the fabled Normandy was on her way in to dock with none other than the walking ghost of Commander Shepard on board. She'd had EDI send a discreet heads-up message to Anderson at his Council office on the Citadel in the faint hope that he might be able to help her stick the metaphorical landing at Alliance HQ. The swell of relief she'd felt when his tall, dark form strode into the Normandy's comm room had nearly choked her. He didn't disappoint, ready to bull-rush the Alliance legal system and bypass the court martial and call this fiasco a Tribunal. He arrived with two other officers in tow, a Rear Admiral and a Captain, neither of whom she had met before. Their disparate ranks said loud and clear that Anderson had steamrolled into HQ and grabbed whoever could possibly fulfill Tribunal duties on a moment's notice. She turned over the Normandy to the Alliance and got debriefed all in one long meeting.

Her second Tribunal session had happened days later, in the hyper-sterile whiteness of the most advanced medical clinic she had ever seen. Strapped to a gurney that lifted and turned however the Chief Medical Officer who was conducting the session saw fit, Shepard was crystal clear that in that case she was the subject of the discussion rather than a participant. Admiral Anderson was, again, presiding along with the Chief and another Admiral who was new to her. Admiral Sakai was a tiny woman, straight-spined despite the age that creased the ivory plains of her delicate face and threaded her jet-black hair with silver. Everyone deferred to her, even Anderson. Endless scans and diagrams accompanied this session that was more medical lecture than interrogation. The Chief Medical Officer had clearly been fascinated with Shepard from a scientific point of view, making her wonder what might happen if she were left alone with him and a scalpel. He conducted scan after scan, displaying the findings in bigger-than-life holo so that the other members of the Tribunal could follow in real-time. Shepard got to see multi-colored images of her innards and listen to an exhaustive cataloguing of all the cybernetics that Cerberus had used to cobble her corpse back together, all while sometimes twirling slowly or hanging upside-down. At random intervals, one of the Admirals would lob questions at her, clearly designed to test the truth of her identity in distracting and uncomfortable circumstances. She never did find out what conclusions they had come to.

Now, weeks later, she was following James's broad back down increasingly impressive hallways. Two Marines, armed and armored, set a rear perimeter on her and kept pace. The presence of armed guards was familiar, but the armor was new. Buffed and polished, they looked very official. A wry suspicion started to form in her mind that was confirmed as soon as she stepped in to the meeting room.

Three figures were seated at a raised dais, lights on the desk before each of them intended to cast their features in authoritarian shadows. On one of them, it nearly worked - an older man whom she didn't recognize, with dark eyes that stared holes through her. A quick glance at his uniform told her he was a Vice-Admiral. On the other two, the effect was wasted. Admiral Anderson tipped his chin downward as he caught her eye, his neutral expression fully illuminated so that she could not miss the significant weight to his gaze. He was trying to warn her of something, but there was no way to tell what. Admiral Sakai glowed in her light, a porcelain island of calm placed in the center of the dais between the two men.

Somehow, tiny Admiral Sakai was the same height as Anderson and the other guy. Out of habit, Shepard turned her head slightly to murmur a comment to Garrus. ("What is she, sitting on a phone book?" she would snark. And then Garrus would have to ask what a phone book is, and she would explain, and he would have something mocking to say about the human obsession with printing ink onto pieces of wood pulp, and they would end up laughing together not nearly as quietly as they thought they were and generally being the most obnoxious pair in the room.) But the presence at behind her was not her turian friend, but a Marine who probably wouldn't think she was very funny. So she kept her mouth shut and tried not to twitch her shoulder against the sudden emptiness she felt at her back.

The arrangement of the room didn't help with that. In the center of the semi-dark space there was a plain metal rail, the kind that kept people from walking into galaxy maps and other holo projectors. The small space in front of that rail was illuminated by a spotlight from above. James gestured silently to that little pool of light, and she pressed her lips together to keep from snorting. So this was how it was going to be? The Tribunal seated comfortably on high, and herself, the accused, humbled and debased to stand below them and face their judgement.

The imagery was too heavy-handed to have been Admiral Sakai's design, and too antagonistic to come from Anderson. That left the mysterious Vice-Admiral.

Ever the good soldier, Shepard stepped into her pool of light and snapped off a salute. It wasn't returned because it didn't have to be.

"Thank you for joining us today, Commander Shepard," Admiral Sakai greeted, her voice as calm and measured as Shepard recalled from their last encounter.

Shepard settled to at-ease and gave a single nod. "Ma'am."

"Before we begin," Admiral Anderson's rich baritone rolled through the room, "I feel it is my duty to remind everyone in this room that the very fact that we're calling this farce a tribunal is a tacit acknowledgement that we are, in fact, in a state of war." Inwardly, Shepard smirked. The Tribunal had been Anderson's idea. The Admiral doth protest too much.

The Vice-Admiral responded smoothly, as though he had anticipated this point. His dark gaze did not leave Shepard. "It is also a tacit acknowledgement that former-Commander Shepard is considered a potential enemy combatant."

"In a war that has never been officially declared!" Anderson's volume rose, and this felt like an old argument being repeated for the sake of getting it on the record.

The Vice-Admiral tore his gaze away from Shepard and glanced all-too-casually down at a datapad on his desk. "If Admiral Anderson would prefer that we proceed with a court-martial, instead, I will remind him that I have the documentation ready here," he tapped the datapad, "All that it needs is our signatures."

"Gentlemen," Admiral Sakai's serene tone forestalled whatever retort Anderson had been about to spit out, "The purpose of convening today is neither to debate the nature of these proceedings, nor to establish Commander Shepard's status. Vice-Admiral Williams, I will have my staff forward the transcripts of this tribunal's second session to your office, so that you may review them."

Williams? Surely not … "That won't be necessary, Admiral."

"Then let the record show that this tribunal has already established that, in all ways relevant and medically provable, the woman before us today is the same Commander Shepard who was killed in action and went down with her ship nearly three years ago." Good to know. Somehow, Admiral Sakai's so-calm voice made that impossible fact sound commonplace, "She is to be accorded the same consideration as any Alliance officer in these proceedings."

"Agreed." Anderson rapped a knuckle on his desk for emphasis.

The Vice-Admiral who was starting to look a bit familiar gave a stiff nod. "Understood."

"Commander Shepard." There was a very slight note of reproach in Admiral Sakai's tone that said she was finally being allowed to return to what she had been about to say at the beginning, when Anderson interrupted. "The purpose of today's inquiry is to explore the nature of the squad that assisted you in your recent endeavors. Are you prepared to answer any and all questions presented to you?"

Ah-ha, so that was what Anderson had been trying to warn her about. He damn well knew that her team had been full of folks who were (she imagined Garrus offering up descriptors: Colorful? Violent? Wanted for crimes that would make an Elcor weep?) no longer on record with the Normandy, or at most of the locations that the Normandy and her crew had visited while working with Cerberus. EDI had been very thorough. Now it was time for Shepard to corroborate that lack of information.

Shepard nodded, her face schooled to a stoic soldier's mask. "Yes ma'am."

Vice-Admiral Williams picked up a second datapad, but did not look at it. Instead, he skewered Shepard with a shadowed gaze. It might have been intimidating if she hadn't already gone toe-to-toe with … hell, she tried to think of just one person she had confronted in the past three years who was more scary than Williams, but the list just kept going on and on. She reminded herself that this man had earned his rank, and had a power over her that she had agreed to submit to by returning to the Alliance, so she had better get over herself and start listening.

"Our tactical experts have reviewed the data that you delivered regarding the assault on this alleged Collector base," Vice-Admiral Williams began, "and they have come to the conclusion that you simply could not have successfully assaulted a facility of that magnitude with the squad that you claim to have had."

After a polite pause to ensure he was done speaking, she matter-of-factly asked, "Sir, did your tactical experts account for the technical finesse of a salarian scientist and a quarian machinist prodigy?"

Williams was ready with an answer, "Mordin Solus's records are sealed by STG -"

Anderson interjected, "Which should speak volumes on its own."

And Williams ignored him, "- and as for the other, I assume that you are referring to Tali'Zorah vas Neema nar Rayya?"

He tapped at the datapad, and a pale blue glow started on the floor just beyond the rail that she stood by. Sure enough, it was a holo projector. An image of Tali's face (er, her helmet) appeared to float in the space between Shepard and the Tribunal. Shepard recognized it from the dossiers in the Normandy's roster, the weirdly candid photo with the sassy head-tilt that no Cerberus photographer could have prompted Tali to do. Not for the first time, Shepard idly wondered if EDI had gone data-mining in the Shadow Broker's files.

A small shake of her head, "No, sir. I am referring to Tali'Zorah vas Normandy. When she was exiled from the Migrant Fleet, she took the name of the ship that she served on."

That earned her a frown from the Vice-Admiral. "Do you honestly expect us to believe that a quarian would take the name of a human ship?"

"It was her home, sir," she gave the pure, simple fact.

"Preposterous!"

Anderson held up a hand, "I believe Commander Shepard's claim is corroborated by the Migrant Fleet's response to our requests for Tali'Zorah's service record."

Williams turned to face him, "We can hardly consider their inquiry as to when the Normandy will be returning to active duty to be a response."

"Specifically, with Commander Shepard as Captain," Anderson pointed out.

Admiral Sakai, smooth as silk, brought the conversation back on track. "Regardless, the Migrant Fleet's records of Tali'Zorah's abilities would be out of date in comparison to the testimonies of the engineers with whom she served during her time aboard the Normandy."

Admiral Anderson consulted his own datapad, "Her current competence has been rated higher than most Alliance engineers can hope to achieve in a full career."

Vice-Admiral Williams waved a dismissive hand, "By Engineers Daniels and Donnelly, both of whom are under investigation, themselves, for their defection to Cerberus. Their assessment is suspect, at best. Even if we were to take them at their word, it still would not account for the ease with which former-Commander Shepard claims to have taken this alleged Collector base."

Ease, he had said. He thought they had taken the base with ease. Shepard's jaw clenched as the memory flashed behind her eyes.

_Tali was in the thermal vent, sickly green translucent panels providing just enough glimpses of the little quarian for her small fire team to keep apace. Roar of a shotgun melds with a Krogan's war-bellow, Grunt plowing ahead, the blunt and unstoppable tip of their spear. Crack-crack of a sniper rifle was the only sound Thane made, announcing the elegant demise of two more Collector drones. Comms crackled, Tali reporting yet another obstruction in the vent._

_"Not much good as a vent, is it? All those obstructions seem to sorta defeat the purpose," Garrus on comms, taking a moment from leading his own team to put in his two cents. Tali quipped back, and Shepard didn't shush them. Trapped and defenseless in a rapidly heating tube, Tali needed all the reassuring banter she could get. And if Garrus had time to crack wise, then his team was doing just fine. Comforting her and Tali in one fell snark; the turian was nothing if not efficient. She held back her own retort so that she could keep an ear open to the firefight around her, listening and waiting for ..._

_Not yet, apparently. Mattock a familiar weight against her shoulder, she sent a brief spray of incendiary rounds to keep the drones' heads down while she broke from cover, confident that Thane would protect the rest of her movement without needing to be told. Sub-audible whomp of biotics and an insectoid screech behind her, and she grinned. Her lover had a way of punishing enemies who tried to shoot her in the back. Bullets were too good for them; crushed organs and broken bones were better._

_Armored shoulder punched the button that would release the obstruction as she turned to face the firefight once more. Tali warbled a relieved thanks and moved on through the vent. And then the shit hit the fan._

_"ASSUMING DIRECT CONTROL." There he was._

_The walls suddenly boiled with Collectors, pouring down on her team, blocking her shot on the one that was suddenly glowing with Reaper influence. Noise poured into Shepard's ears._

_Grunt roared a challenge, trying to carve a path through the enemy throng and failing. There were just so damn many of them. Garrus barked over comms that his team was meeting heavy resistance. Collectors screeched, biotics hummed, bullets pinged on walls and zapped her shields to pin her to cover and keep her from advancing. Through it all, there was Tali's increasingly frantic voice over comms reporting yet another obstruction that left her trapped and cooking alive in that damned vent._

_Shepard gritted her teeth. Added to the cacophony by lobbing two grenades into the mass, then leaped from cover and ran like hell for the next button. Claws scrabbled over her armor, but she didn't bother trying to fight them, too busy running. A glowing carapace suddenly loomed in her path, the Collector being puppeted by the Reaper intelligence and determined to kill her, just her. To Harbinger, Shepard was the prime target. Her furious instincts screamed at her to kill him just as Tali screamed in fear and pain. It wasn't even a choice. Shepard ducked to the side, rolled past the Harbinger-puppet and kept running._

_Harsh buzz of her shields failing, sharp impact of bullets finally hitting her armor, piercing through to her flesh, but all she could hear was Tali's screams. She dove, heedless of the chaos around her, rolling at the last moment to strike the button with her shoulder. The obstruction released, Tali sobbed in relief, and Shepard turned to come face-to-face with Harbinger._

Yes, that had been so easy. Vice-Admiral Williams was old enough to have fought at Shanxi, where humans and turians had first discovered a mutual talent for bloodshed. For him to scorn the hell that her squad had gone through in fighting a new and frightening alien threat ... it could only be a deliberate provocation. With an effort, she unclenched her jaw. She could not afford to rise to that bait. Time to stay focused on protecting the people who had helped her. "Do the Alliance tactical experts have a way to quantify the impact of a centuries-old asari Justicar on a battlefield?"

Williams pressed his lips together. He didn't like this particular point. Admiral Sakai lifted her own datapad, and with a few delicate finger-touches called up a series of graphs to the holo projector. Lines in blue for the asari, and white for the Alliance. The graphs were very telling, but Sakai verbalized the results anyway, "As you can all see, in matters of biotic power the average asari commando exceeds all known human military standards."

"I think it's safe to assume that Justicar Samara is well above average," Anderson rumbled, "She offered her service record without being asked, you know. Centuries of data. I had to task two aides to analyzing it 'round the clock, and they're still not done. But what they've reported so far is … impressive."

"Chilling, is more like it," corrected Williams, "That asari is a killer."

"Precisely," Shepard agreed. "In her own way, Justicar Samara is the most principled, controlled warrior I've ever met." A pause, there, as she let the Tribunal consider the full spectrum of warriors met by Commander Shepard. "And she is an undeniable juggernaut of biotic ability. She was an unstoppable force of authority and justice in asari space when humans were still trying to turn lead into gold and burning witches at the stake."

"Your point, Shepard?" Williams sounded bored.

"Sir, my point is that my squad was extraordinary. Every last one of them." Anderson took his cue, tapped his datapad, and suddenly the holo projector was wiped of graphs and displayed dossier photos. Shepard pointed at each image in turn as she spoke, her voice taking on the subtly fierce cadence of command as memories of farewells whispered in the back of her mind:

"Tali'Zorah vas Normandy and Justicar Samara, you already know. Jacob Taylor and Miranda Lawson: Cerberus operatives, competent in the extreme regardless of their affiliation. Doctor Mordin Solus, in his spare time he cured a plague that had been engineered by the Collectors to kill all non-humans on Omega. ..."  
_"Glad to have been here, Shepard. Honor. Have taken Collector tissue samples. Will study forced evolution from Protheans, prepare for possible imminent Reaper invasion."_

"... Urdnot Grunt, genetically engineered to meet the Krogan standard of perfection. ..."  
_"We can leave Okeer's genetic tinkering out of it," she offered. He gave that slow chuckle, "Heh heh heh. If they wanna make somethin' of it, let 'em come. If the rest of your Alliance is like you, they'll make worthy enemies for Clan Urdnot."_

"... Flight Lieutenant Moreau, the best damn pilot the Alliance has. Period. ..."_  
"Don't worry, Commander. They''ll never get rid of me. I'm like space herpes!"_

"... And Garrus Vakarian, the finest officer C-Sec ever lost. He helped me take down Saren, and Sovereign, and now the Collectors. ..."_  
"Where will you go?" she asked, striving for casual. He saw right through her, like always, his mandibles flicking in a dry chuckle, "Not back to Omega, if that's what you're asking. Think I'll go home, to Palaven. Try and get somebody, anybody, to listen to our crazy story. And Shepard …" his hand hovered over her shoulder, hesitating a moment before clasping, "... take care."_

"... Every last one of them followed me through the Omega-4 relay and into the mouth of Hell itself, because they knew that it wasn't just the lives of thousands of human colonists at stake. And every last one of them came back. Because they are all. That. Good."

The Tribunal sat in silence. Anderson gave her a barely perceptible nod. Admiral Sakai was inscrutable, gaze flickering over the holo images. Williams stared at Shepard, his jaw set in a hard line. He drew breath to speak, and when he did it didn't much matter to Shepard any more. He was going on about rumors that Garrus had actually been the vigilante known as Archangel, but Shepard made no comment. She didn't have to - Sakai was already pointing out that Council law did not extend to Omega, and Anderson was retorting that if Garrus had been a vigilante targeting criminal organizations that it spoke in favor of his character rather than against it. This session was all over but the shouting. The important thing was that five particular names never did come up. Kasumi, Jack, Zaeed, Thane, and Legion. Four criminals and one impossible ally. EDI had been very thorough, indeed.

The litany of her comrades had filled her with renewed pride in each of them, and refreshed her determination to see this Tribunal through. It was imperative that the Alliance trust her, or they wouldn't believe the Reapers were a threat until it was too late.

Afterwards, on the way back to her quarters, there was a subtle change in the three Marines escorting her. They had been present in the Tribunal chamber throughout the session, and though they hadn't spoken they had apparently been listening. Before, their formation around her had been full of the tense, surrounding watchfulness of guards with a prisoner. Now, the two behind her moved closer to her flanks, and James shifted a step to one side so that as he led her down the halls he did not obstruct her. Taking point. They moved like a squad in formation with her, rather than Marines protecting the rest of the world from her.

After weeks of solitude, the change did her soldier's heart good.


	3. Chapter 3 - Haunted House

_Frigid wind skirled snow around armored boots as she hunted among the bones of a dead ship for the shiny bits of metal that were the only remnants of her crew. The cold pierced through her, grasping the warmth from her body with covetous fingers. Jingle of metal, a pile of dogtags filling her hand, overflowing and scattering across the ice. She scrambled to catch them but the cold made her slow. Clumsy. Her knees hit hard when she fell, cracking greaves too frozen to bear her weight. Armor crumbled and fell away, icy air poured in to every crevice, furious ghostly hands eager to peel away her living protections and drag her into the cold.  
Where she belonged._

_Tears froze to her cheeks. Sobs hauled crystals of stabbing cold into sluggish lungs through gritted teeth. Numb fingers pawed at the tags, trying to gather them even as she died. Again._

_Across the ice, wind tumbled a piece of debris, bouncing almost merrily toward her. It landed with a thump inches from her face, and she recognized her old N7 helmet. The one that had betrayed her before, suffocated her in the vacuum. Slowly, almost sensually, its mask began to slide upward. She tried to push away, scrabble backward away from her murderer on limbs that no longer had feeling._

_The mask snapped open. She screamed._

* * *

Shepard woke with a gasp. Sat bolt upright and grasped the edges of her bed with crushing fingers. The room's enviro-controls clicked on in response to her movement, and the real world came into focus. Light and warmth and windows just starting to glow with pre-dawn light. Sweat-tangled sheets, plain walls, white noise hum of a building full of people waking up outside of those walls.

Alone. Small bed, nobody with her. No disembodied AI voice to answer a plea for reassurance disguised as a simple call for spatial position and ETA to the next relay. She could ping the door and summon one of her guards just to see another person's face, but then she would have to explain herself and "I had a bad dream" was about as likely to make it past her lips as one of Mordin's showtunes.

So she hauled her ass out of bed and set methodically about her usual post-dream routine: move the body, remember that it's alive; move the brain, remember the facts because the dream was a lie. She was a terrible liar when it came to other people, but apparently when she was asleep she could lie to herself just fine.

Clammy sweat-soaked skivvies were peeled off and replaced with Alliance-issue PT clothes. All of the known galaxy at their disposal, and the human military had found nothing better than cotton shirts and drawstring shorts. Calisthenics were her only option for exercise (no equipment had been provided, presumably to prevent her from carving a treadmill into a really big shiv), so she moved to the center of her living space and launched into the regimen that had been drilled into her body since basic training.

That had been a shock, one of many she'd absorbed in the first days after coming back to life. She hadn't expected her "new" body to have the muscle-memory of the original; the first time that she automatically transitioned from lunges to push-ups was also the first time she got to visit Dr. Chakwas. Turns out, when your hands are too surprised to catch you on your way to the floor, less qualified body parts get the job. Like the face.

Limbs moving smoothly through exertions as old as human military itself, Shepard was able to focus her thoughts. Review what had really happened on that frozen heap of a planet. Catalogue the truths to banish the lie of the dream.

_Truth:_ though she would never admit it aloud, she had put off visiting the Normandy SR-1's crash site for as long as she could. But as the odds of surviving what the galaxy was throwing at them started looking slimmer, she knew that she had to do it before there was no one left who could. Every offer to accompany her to Alchera's surface had been turned down. Some more forcefully than others. Some repeatedly. She could see the hurt in Joker at being left behind, hear it in his parting quip ("Bring back souvenirs!"). There wasn't a lot of gentleness in Shepard, but she had used every ounce she had on him, for all the good it had done. The planet's surface was all ice, though. A bad place for a brittle skeleton to walk.

Standing in the center of her old ship's corpse, she had been bitterly glad to be alone. It felt right. A haunted house should only be wandered by its ghosts.

Radio silence was the unspoken protocol for that particular mission. No sound met her ears but the whistling of the wind.

_Truth:_ the wind had that slightly tinny quality of her helmet's auditory sensors, not the fierce howl of the dream. The cold had no hope of reaching her through armor designed to withstand open space. Inside her suit, she had been warm and comfortable and safe. And she always would be, so long as no ships exploded violently around her and severed her O2 line.

Hours had passed while she sifted through the snow and rubble, walking under hull struts that arched above her like the ribs of some immense beast. A star whale, beached and wounded and helpless, bleeding out on a strange shore. Shepard had dusted the frost from a piece of hull plating that bore the letter N of her old ship's name and whispered, "I'm sorry."

The hollow buzz in her right ear reminded her that the comm channel was live. Anyone listening would hear her. So she swallowed the rest of her words and tried to express them all simply through the pressure of her hand on the hull, briefly wishing that she could strip the glove and touch the frozen metal. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry you died alone out here. I'm sorry you're alive again, up in the stars, new and improved and expected to carry on with the fight and forget that you had ever been anything else. I'm sorry for you, and for me, too. And after I leave this planet, I will never feel sorry for us again.

_Truth:_ of all the reasons that Shepard loved the Normandy, this was the simplest and most honest. They were two of a kind.

The monument was set in the center of the debris field, in a spot that looked sheltered enough to keep the little statue from being overcome by snow too soon.

After that, the search had gone more quickly. Twenty sets of dog tags filled her hand. Bakari, Draven, Pakti, Tucks, even Navigator Pressly; each name was called back over comms, reported in case she didn't make it back with the tags, for some reason. A section of the helm's nav-panel was tucked under her arm, Joker's souvenir, and she had just turned back to the shuttle when her boot kicked a rock that made a hollow thunk. She nudged it with her toe, and a thin layer of snow sifted free to expose an N7 helmet. Her N7 helmet.

There was no telling how long she had stood there and stared at the thing, but it was long enough that whoever was listening on the comms had hit the squelch, checking that the channel was still live. That brief silence of the ever-present buzz in her ear brought her back, reminded her that there was a ship full of crew and a galaxy full of troubles waiting for her. With her free hand, she scooped up the helmet and took it aboard the shuttle with her. The broken O2 line dragged over her arm like a nerveless limb. A dead, powerless thing.

_Truth:_ she had climbed into the shuttle and flown herself back to the Normandy SR-2. Which was exactly the opposite of dying on that planet.

The normally empty shuttle bay was bustling with a half-dozen crew when she disembarked. Doctor Chakwas had somehow coaxed Joker far from his customary roost at the helm; the two of them were walking the length of the cavernous room, going through the exercises that she always prescribed and he always avoided. Two crates had been pushed together to form a table; Tali perched on one end, fiddling with her omin-tool, while the rest of the space was taken up by a fully disassembled sniper rifle. Garrus meticulously cleaned each piece, standing in that casual-deadly hipshot way that said he was on his guard. He and Tali both were keeping a close eye on the only person in the room who had not served aboard the old Normandy SR-1.

Miranda leaned against a bulkhead, somehow making the posture seem sinuous. Unlike the others, she made no pretense that she was there for any reason but to wait on Shepard's return. It was the closest thing to honesty that the woman was capable of.

Shepard stood for a moment, expression studiously neutral. Her ground team knew the look; Tali powered down her omni-tool and slid off the crate, Garrus quietly emptied his hands and folded his arms. Shepard turned back to the shuttle and sat on the edge of the doorway, the better to gather up her finds from the crash site, pulling them within easy reach. In her peripheral sight, she saw Miranda push away from the bulkhead and cat-foot in her direction. Just because the Cerberus operative had been in charge of the project that had brought Shepard back to life didn't mean she knew the Commander well enough to know when to back off.

"Welcome back, Commander Shepard," Miranda's smooth voice was just accented enough to be interesting, as calculated as everything else about her. "I trust that the monument has been well placed?"

"It has."

"Excellent. I'm sure that must have been hard for you. I look forward to reading your report." There was a slight edge in her voice. Miranda had been one of those who had to be told twice that she would not be accompanying Shepard to the crash site. At the time, it had seemed odd for the ship's XO to hound the Commander so persistently, particularly for a mission that wasn't at all Cerberus-related. For most people, one no from Shepard was enough. Of course, now she knew why.

Shepard answered without looking up, carefully stacking the dog tags in the palm of her gloved hand. "Oh, I won't be writing up a report on this one."

There was an affronted pause. "May I ask why?"

"Because laying the Normandy SR-1 to rest is none of Cerberus's business." Her calm voice hardened with controlled anger, and she sensed her team's response. They began moving closer, shamelessly eavesdropping, "But when you file your own report, the secondary report that you always file, the one that's not about the mission but about me ..." Shepard finally looked up, locking eyes with Miranda, "... you can tell the Illusive Man that I got his message."

Miranda tried for confusion, but fell short. It just wasn't an expression that her tailored features were suited for. "I'm not sure what you mean, Commander. What message?"

Armor creaked softly as Shepard leaned into the shadows of the shuttle's hold to retrieve an object. With an underhand toss, it flew in a gentle arc across the brief space. Reflex brought Miranda's arms up to catch it. She looked down, turning it over in her hands.

"Is that ..?" Joker started to ask, but didn't need to finish the question. Of course he would recognize it. He had watched the O2 line snap from the window of his escape pod.

"It's the helmet that killed me," she explained for everyone else's benefit, her stare never leaving Miranda, "The helmet that the Lazarus Project team peeled off of my dead skull in a lab on their space station."

"And somehow that helmet made its way to the crash site, where Shepard could just happen to find it?" Garrus drawled coolly, but she recognized the stewing disgust in his sub-chords. "How convenient."

"Shepard, I want you to know that I had nothing to do with this." Miranda met her gaze and held it steadily. There had never been a lot of flinch in Operative Lawson, "I admit, there was a time when I agreed with the Illusive Man's assessment that you needed the occasional reminder of who was in control - "

"In control? Of Shepard?" Tali could pack a lot of scorn into that sweet little modulated voice. "If you believe that, I've got some beachfront property on Rannoch to sell you."

"Yeah," snorted Joker, "Illusive Man? More like Delusional Man."

_Truth:_ her team always had her back. And somewhere along the line, they had all gotten sassy.

Miranda ignored them in her aristocratic way, "- but when he presented me with this idea, I strongly advised against it. I've seen you in action, Shepard. After you helped me with Orianna, I just … You're a …" she tossed her head (prettily), gaze roving as though looking for the right words, "... force of bloody nature. No leash in the galaxy could hold you, if you didn't allow it. Leaving this," she tossed the helmet back to Shepard, who caught it easily with one hand, "for you to find would, in my estimation, have the opposite of the intended effect."

"Is that honestly what you told him?" Only Dr. Chakwas could manage to sound both disdainfully disbelieving and utterly polite. Classy.

"Yes. It is." Miranda's words were clipped; she was starting to look cornered. Shepard gestured, and her team eased back slightly, chagrined. Miranda went on with an air of self-quoting, "Tug on her leash too hard, and she will tug back. And when she does, the leash will snap."

Shepard gave a single nod, leaning back to recline slightly against the shuttle. The hard edge lingered in her tone, but it was losing its bite. "Looks like you know what to file in your report, then."

Miranda knew a dismissal when she heard one. "Of course, Commander." Lips pressed together in displeasure, she turned and sauntered to the elevator, the natural rhythm of her stride drawing inevitable attention to the parts of her anatomy most revealed by the slim fit of her Cerberus uniform. In moments she was gone, leaving the former crew of the Normandy SR-1 alone in the shuttle bay.

Joker was the first to break the silence. "Anybody else wonder how she gets into that outfit? I mean, is there oil involved, or does she just paint it on every day?"

"Outfit?" Tali folded her arms and popped out a hip. "And here I thought that was just the color of her skin, and she was wandering around in the nude." Joker guffawed, Dr. Chakwas chuckled, and Garrus just stared at the young quarian with his mandibles quirked for a long moment before huffing a laugh.

Shepard let their levity wash over her without being touched by it, though she sensed it was at least partly for her benefit. Alchera was just too raw, her anger with the Illusive Man simmering too high. Propping the broken helmet on her knee, she reached into the shuttle and pulled out the jagged piece of nav-panel from the SR-1's helm.

"Here. Souvenir," she handed it to Joker, "Can't say I never got you anything nice."

"Oh gee, Commander, you shouldn't have!" sarcasm was the man's native tongue, "Just what I always wanted, a hunk of freezing cold … space ... junk …" his words trailed off, the momentum of humor draining out of them as he took a closer look at what he held in his hands. He brushed fingertips across the surface, an echo of the deft patterns of flight, and his voice came softer, "Wow. I … thanks, Commander. Really." He ducked his head, the brim of his cap hiding his eyes from her.

Elbows propped on knees, Shepard jostled the dog tags still clasped in her gloved hand. Their gentle metallic music seemed to call the attention of the small group.

"Next stop is picking up the Reaper IFF, then after that it's a hop through the Omega-4 relay. No ports between here and … whatever's there." A ripple of movement ran through them, feet shifting, heads nodding. "We've come a long way. Lost a lot of good people." The words seemed to pull from her mouth, like something she couldn't have stopped if she wanted to. Gravity. "But we've found these twenty again. So now it falls to the living to carry them the rest of the way home."

Counting out five tags for each of them, she silently passed the burden to her team until each of the four of them had a bundle of shiny metal in the palm of their hand. Which left her own hands finally empty. "Save the full list to your omni-tools. This way, even if not all of us make it back, the knowledge of the fallen will."

Setting the broken helmet aside, she rose to her feet. Joker was frowning at the tags in his hand; he looked up, lips parting to speak, but Garrus cut him off, "Been a long day, and tomorrow'll be even longer. Probably we all need to get some rack-time."

She slid him a half-frowned glance, "Is it night-cycle already?"

The worried purr of his sub-chords belied the nonchalance of his words, "Yeah, you were down there a while. Somehow we managed to get by."

Suddenly restless and desperate to get out of her armor, to leave the shuttle and the planet and its cold silence behind, Shepard just nodded and strode away to the elevator. Her team would forgive her brusque departure. They always did.

_Truth:_ the souls of her fallen comrades had been left safe in the hands of those who had survived. Even when the Collectors had abducted the crew, Dr. Chakwas had kept the tags she had been given safe, strung around her neck with her own. All twenty sets of tags had made it back to the Alliance. The living had brought the dead home, delivered along with Commander Shepard, who was a little bit of both.


	4. Chapter 4 - Exertion Therapy

Sweaty again. Not the cold, sick sweat of fear and bad dreams but the hot, honest sweat of a body at work. She had lost count of push-ups at some point, though the burn in her triceps said it was time to stop. Ten more, then.

With one last push and a gasp, she flopped onto her back in the middle of her apartment floor. Hands rested on her ribs, feeling the steady rise and fall of exerted breath rapidly calming. She cast a sour glance at the surveillance camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling. Where there was one she could see, there were a dozen more she could not. There were other ways to help dispel the nightmare, but she couldn't indulge while the cameras were watching. Hands on her ribs, pressing slightly to align fingers to the spaces between bone, was as intimate as she could be with herself in this place. The last thing she wanted was for the extranet to crawl with images of Commander Shepard's solo pleasure sessions.

Memory stirred. Fingers flexed, dug into her own flesh for a brief moment before lifting, sliding behind her head and away from temptation. As her body shifted into the autopilot of abdominal exercises, her mind was free to wander.

_Her armor had been stifling, even in the short elevator ride to her cabin. It had kept her safe and warm on that frozen rock of a planet, shored her up during the confrontation with Miranda, but now she needed it gone. Fingers pulled at the gorget, stretching it as far from her neck as the heavy material would allow. Not enough. The breastplate needed to come off, but it was buckled to the pauldrons covering her shoulders. Cursing the thoroughness of Kassa Fabrications integration with N7 gear, she yanked at the straps, sending the heavy KF pauldrons clattering to the floor of the elevator. The door dinged open just as she was hurling her battered N7 breastplate at it, so the thing flew through the gap and bounced off the wall off of the big, bright letters (DECK 1, CAPTAIN'S CABIN) with a reproachful clang. Growling, she kicked the pauldrons through the door after it before striding through herself._

_Finally able to breathe, ribs moving freely inside the heavy mesh underarmor, she closed her eyes. Turned to lean her back against the wall that had born the the breastplate's impact and drew in a long breath that seemed to fill her all the way to her toes. Shipboard air, slightly stale from recycling, was like mother's milk to a spacer kid like her. It should have calmed her. It didn't._

_"Did your armor offend you in some way, Siha?" rumbled a mild voice._

_Shepard startled, spun to face him, a snarl involuntarily curling her lip. Thane stepped from the meager shadow near her cabin door. The SR-2 was so damn brightly lit in the hallways, there were very few places for assassins to lurk. Thane managed to find them, though, and apparently that was where he'd held vigil to wait for her return from Alchera. His poise usually soothed her by example, gave her something to strive for in her own behavior. On this night, it was vexing. He stood in her foyer, hands folded quietly behind his back, as composed and coldly beautiful as Michelangelo's David done in shades of green while she roiled inside. A single brow ridge lifted inquiringly over black-on-black eyes, and she realized that she was staring. With an effort, she reined in her temper , shaking her head. "Had to take it off. Couldn't breathe."_

_He nodded, humming an understanding tone that shimmered along his red throat-crest, "I would ask how your journey went, but I think that I can see ... Your armor bears no more signs of damage than it had when you departed some hours ago. I detect no ozone scent of an expended thermal clip about you. And," with breathtaking speed, he closed the distance between them, hands bracing on the wall behind her, trapping without touching. His voice was a quiet growl from inches away, "my battle angel is spoiling for a fight."_

_Her eyes narrowed, the threat and promise of his nearness quickening her pulse. "I don't _spoil_ for fights, Thane. I have better control than that."_

_"You do," enigmatic tone could either contradict her first statement or agree with the second. "Though your control has been sorely taxed of late. The road has been long and much beset by battle. The stakes are high and the pace of engagement accelerated by a man of dubious motivations." Tension zinged along her spine at this mention of the Illusive Man, and Thane's overfull lower lip curved in predatory amusement. "Ah. So I have him to thank for this magnificent temper."_

_Thane pulled one hand from the wall and ran it just above the curve of her cheek, semi-fused fingers drifting to caress the air a scant inch above her breast. Against all reason, she thought she could feel the warmth of his hand through the mesh underarmor separating them. "It's not all him," her voice was rougher than she expected, "he just ambushed me, is all. That whole place did."_

_"Unsettling," he agreed calmly, hand drifting lower to press the air over her belly, which quivered under his not-touch, "to walk one's own grave and suffer attacks from enemies no bullet may wound. Hounded by ghosts of past and distance whose taunts cannot be answered in kind."_

_The truth of his words boiled in her gut, the frustration of the long, cold day setting her teeth on edge. Yes, she was spoiling for a fight. All day, she had been shadowboxing with emotions she couldn't name and chafing at the manipulations of a man she was growing to hate. There was nothing to shoot at, nowhere to throw a punch, and the need to retaliate was burning her up from the inside. If she didn't vent it soon, she would explode. And the Commander couldn't afford to explode. Not ever._

_Her gaze met Thane's from inches away, searching those black depths for understanding and finding it. They had not been lovers for long; he could still surprise the hell out of her. Here was someone who was capable of giving her the fight that she craved … and, by the parting of pale green lips that curved in a rare hint of a smile, he was looking forward to it._

_She crushed that smile with a kiss made of tongue and teeth. He met her urgency with a muffled growl and a hard shove that pressed her back to the wall. The hand over her belly slid into the center seam of her underarmor, parting the fastenings with the deft ease of a man accustomed to finding the weak points in armor. Fingertips traced scorching patterns across her skin as they kissed, tongues stroking over one another, drinking long and deep. There was no telling how long they kissed, mouths clashing till they were both gasping. It was magic, but it wasn't what she needed. With a twist of the hip and a jab of a still-armored fist, Shepard put enough space between them to slip free. And the fight was on._

_The master assassin flowed like poetry, quick and light and impactful. The soldier struck like concentrated thunder, slower than her opponent but more powerful. Quick exchange of blows, more acrobatic and evasive than damaging, carried them through the door of her cabin and into the living space. Shepard had a brief moment to think she might be holding her own. Then Thane reminded her that of the two of them, only one was an expert in close quarters single combat._

_It was like tumbling down a waterfall, the flurry of movement that finally bested her. Fluid and beautiful and unavoidable. In the end, she was held fast, facing the empty fish tank. Lazily, Thane reached out to turn off the light in the tank so that she could clearly see their reflection in the darkened glass. Blue glow of biotic energy wrapped around her wrists, holding them tight above her head with a steady pressure. Thane was like a shadow of temptation against her back, lean and so very solid, one forearm braced across her throat with his hand angled upward to hold the biotic energy steady. Her neck strained, jaw forcibly canted to one side. He could crush the breath from her in a heartbeat._

_He caught her gaze in the reflection. "So lovely…" he purred against her ear, spilling shivers down her spine. She couldn't stand the energy, kicking backward with booted feet, trying to disable his stance. He grunted as she struck a solid blow, shifting his balance to evade her and never once losing his grip. A dark chuckle threaded his voice, "... so _fierce_, Siha."_

_A part of her marvelled that he was holding her captive with just one arm. The rest of her was mesmerized, watching the reflection of his free hand caressing the air above her body again. The imagined heat of his touch became real as his hand slipped into the center seam of the mesh, the touch lazy, savoring. Each rib was counted, the contours of muscle and hip explored, breasts plumped and stroked till her breath rasped in her confined throat. Fingers spread, the green of his skin vivid against the paleness of hers as the underarmor was shifted aside to bare more and more of her to the reflection._

_Finally, a stroke that started at her breastbone slid down her belly with a slow, inevitable purpose that set her bucking and kicking against him. But his hold was too solid, his leverage too masterful, and all she could do was watch in the glass as his hand pushed past the belt of her greaves and slipped into the slickness between her thighs._

There was a knock at the door. Shepard paused mid-crunch and sighed. Every damn time.

"C'mon in, Vega," she called.

She didn't look up as the big Marine strode through the door, gaze focused on her own knees as she put her core through another set of strengthening exercises. His stride was unmistakable, though. Long and light, stopping a fair distance away.

"How d'you know it was me this time?" James was getting better at skipping formalities. "I figured it was the knocking, before, so I got all the other guys to start doing it, too."

She knew it was him because of all the guards to knock on her door, he was the only one to ever interrupt her steamier daydreams. If she wasn't careful, this was going to turn downright Pavlovian. Instead of confessing to that and embarrassing them both, she lifted her left leg and waggled her boot at him.

"Ri-i-i-ight. Thought you needed to take the boot off for that."

"Upgrades," she grunted as she completed one last crunch, then collapsed to the floor and peered up at James. Caught him staring; he snapped to attention, eyes fixated on the middle distance and not on the unexpected sight of Commander Shepard prone and sweating on the floor. Not helping that Pavlovian thing, Marine.

Climbing smoothly to her feet, she gave him a once-over and frowned a little. Instead of his usual uniform, James was wearing fatigues and a plain white shirt that was a match for the one she wore. Except his shirt was four sizes bigger and still strained to contain the masses of muscle that made up his torso. "At ease, Vega," her tone mocked her own lack of authority. He relaxed, and she stood hipshot, "You're all dressed up. What's the occasion?"

"Thought you might want to get some real PT. Ya know, outside. Where there's stuff like trees and sunshine and weather."

An environment that was more than plain walls and low ceilings? A place with open sky and the illusion of freedom? How exotic. How incredibly, desperately appealing. She tried to play it cool, "That'd be nice, if I was cleared for it. Has something changed?"

"Anderson cleared it. Something about extended confinement and continued cooperation. Lots of big words. I stopped listening." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the door. "So you wanna go run, or what?"

Hell yes! "Sure."

James led the way through the apartment's door, where she was stopped by an armed Marine in regular uniform. His was a face that she hadn't seen before. Too old to be a new recruit, too soft around the edges to have been in Lieutenant Vega's unit of hardbodies for long. The new guy held up a hand, "Ma'am. We'll need to scan you before we can clear you for outdoor activity."

Shepard shrugged; she would've signed over her space hamster's firstborn babies if it meant she got to go outside. James nodded to the Marine, his expression serious and foreboding, "Check her boots. We have reason to believe she keeps contraband in there, specifically the left one."

"Sir, I've calibrated my omni-tool to scan for all materials -"

"Eyeballs on, Corporal!" James growled down at the kid, a tip of his head casting intimidating shadows over his rough features. "Or do you think the Alliance can afford to take risks with a high-value package like Commander Shepard?"

"Aye, Lieutenant!" And so help her, she was made to strip off her boots right there in the hallway. The scan was completed with ludicrous thoroughness: under the laces, inside the socks, and even between her toes. And because she was technically sans rank, there was not a whole hell of a lot she could do other than endure it.

Finally scanned and deemed safe for the outdoors, she threw a glance at Vega while hauling her boots back on. That careful Marine mask was firmly in place, likely for the Corporal's benefit. She waited until they had moved down the hall and were out of earshot before asking.

"Vega?"

"Ma'am?"

"Did you just use me to screw with the FNG?"

"He owes my buddy fifty creds, ma'am."

She snorted, "Sometimes, it's good to be home."

"Yes ma'am."

Seconds later, sunlight hit her face and she knew she'd be lobster red before the end of the day. She briefly considered asking James if there would be any sunscreen available, but then figured she would rather cuddle a rabid varren. There was no time, anyway; the big Lieutenant was leading her to a group of five Marines who were all dressed in PT fatigues. She kept her posture casual as she approached, though her trained gaze couldn't help but give them all a quick once-over.

Young, fit, three men and two women. These were the kind of fighting-trim killers she expected to find serving with a beast like Lieutenant Vega. Each of them bore a sidearm in a thigh holster, though she could tell by the slightly disproportionate shoulder muscling that the two women were better with a sniper rifle. One of the men was nearly as beefy as Vega, but the other two were slim and leggy. Fast. It was a good squad to cover a prisoner who might attempt escape. She wondered if James had put it together; if so, his brains were showing.

They all snapped to attention as she approached, and every one of them - James included - saluted. She shook her head. "Pretty sure you're not supposed to do that, guys."

"Pretty sure we're not gonna stop, ma'am." James lowered his arm, and the rest of the squad followed suit, a few of them nodding agreement. He gestured casually to the group. "Hope you don't mind, but these ugly grunts will be joining us on our run today."

She nodded to the weapons, "Expecting trouble?"

Massive shoulders lifted in a shrug, "Think of us as an honor guard. We're honoring the historical fact that shit blows up when you're around."

The squad seemed to hold their collective breath, waiting to see her reaction. Shepard lifted one corner of her mouth in a half-smile, "Fair enough. We runnin' or what?"


	5. Chapter 5 - A Certain Context

**Author's Note: Up to this point, I've been using _italics_ to indicate a memory/flashback. But in this chapter I found myself with a memory-within-a-memory scenario and very limited formatting options. So! Anything in _italics_ is memory, and anything **

**_{both italicized and center-justified}_**

**is a memory of a memory. Because I complicate things. It's a curse.**

* * *

Thump-thump-thump-thump. The metronome of boots in unison. As soothing as a mother's heartbeat. The squad let Shepard set the pace, and pride made her set a hard one. She never thought of herself as getting older, but if these Marines were young then she definitely wasn't that, anymore. Along paths, over gentle slopes, through trees and grassy places, the seven of them double-timed it through some kind of not-quite-public park. It was a common area, but only seemed to be used by Alliance personnel. A green island in the middle of a city that sprawled so seamlessly that it was hard to tell where the civilian space ended and the Alliance military complex began. The squad grew bored with the steady pace and started practicing formation drills with her as the centerpoint, switching positions on the move as Vega barked out signals.

They were literally running circles around her. Brats.

Shepard let them have their fun. If soldiers weren't giving you shit, they didn't think you were worth their time. This simple acceptance started knitting something back together inside her that she had given up for permanently torn. The reconstruction of Shepard was far more complicated than simply bringing her body back to life. For a human-centric organization, Cerberus had been stunningly neglectful of the humanity aspect of her resurrection.

Thump-thump-thump-thump. Fourteen boots pounding pavement didn't sound much like two boots echoing on bulkheads, but the memory rose up all the same. She let herself sink into the rhythm of the run and the vivid echo behind her eyes.

_Thump-thump-thump-thump. Steady tread of booted feet echoing through the Normandy's passageways. Skeleton crew of the night cycle kept out of her way, marking her passage with tired smiles and the occasional murmured "Commander". Her crew. She had barrelled into hell to snatch them all back from the Collectors, and left nothing but scorched rubble behind her. A lesson to all those who would try to steal her people. For now, until she had to hand them all back to Cerberus, this crew was hers. They seemed content with that._

_Shepard should have been sleeping. The victory party had been long and raucous, and wound down hours prior. There was a bed full of warm, sleeping assassin in her cabin that should have beckoned her. But even after hours of celebrating with her squad, and then a marvelous private celebration with Thane (followed by a quick shower; the only one of Mordin's medical predictions about sex with a Drell to come true was the mild rash issue, easily solved by prompt bathing) Shepard had found herself wide awake. Restless. Full to brimming with a nervous hum that seemed to radiate from her bones out. She had tried to distract herself with reports and rosters, tallying the dead and compiling the evidence of a pending Reaper incursion, but sitting still was simply out of the question. After the third time that her pacing back and forth had caused Thane to stir in his sleep, she decided it was time to leave the cabin._

_A quick search of her gear had found only one garment specified for shipboard PT: a slim-fitting one piece suit made of some ultralight synthetic material. It covered her completely from neck to knees, and hid absolutely nothing. Faced with the options of wearing that, or wearing a full uniform, the choice was disgruntlingly clear. She looked about as naked as she felt; the material was so light and breathable that it might as well have been nonexistent. Apparently the skintight design of Miranda's uniform was actually Cerberus standard. Oh well. At least it was black._

_And so she jogged the halls of the Normandy, bow to stern, every floor. EDI helpfully suggested more efficient routes for her to take, even going so far as to provide red blinking guidance lights on the floorboards. Shepard thanked the AI, but completely ignored the lights. Skipping the elevator, she found service hatches and passages between decks that she'd never known existed. Every square foot of hull that passed her gaze, each newly discovered nook and hold, chipped away at the hard knot of tension that had been sitting in the center of her chest since she had first returned to find the Normandy empty of everyone but Joker. The Normandy had been violated by the Collectors, and it had felt like a violation of her own self. Shepard found herself reaching out from time to time as she ran, brushing fingers across a bulkhead as she turned a tight corner, jumping up mid-stride to smack a palm against an overhead beam. Bonding with her ship. Reclaiming her._

_Sweating and tired in body if not in mind, she ended her run in the mess hall at the center of the crew deck. The chairs were empty, the big windows of the med bay were dark, and all was quiet but for the ever-present hum of FTL drives. Shepard helped herself to a bottle of water from the mess and set about pacing the length of the hallway to the forward battery, cooling down._

_Reaching the end of the hall, she pondered the door. When Garrus had first arrived, she had periodically checked on him, her wounded friend. Once he had healed, she just never stopped checking in, and the visits evolved into a consistent after-mission ritual. They would both go to quarters, get cleaned up, then meet in the forward battery to talk. Review the mission, swap bull over old war stories, whatever. Mordin, ever observant, had dubbed those meetings the "mission post-mortem, conducted by Doctors Shepard and Vakarian". Sometimes, other squad members would join them. Tali was a regular, with her playful wit and genius. Dr. Chakwas would saunter over from med bay if she suspected they might be dodging her for wound care. Even Joker would join them if the Normandy was docked. Thane never did, though, politely claiming a need for dry air and meditation. Nobody managed to stay for the duration of the bull session; it ran too late for most folks, since turians needed less sleep than any other species but the Salarians, and part of Shepard's fancy new cybernetics was a circadian modulator that trimmed her rest cycles down to four hours a night. In the end it had always been Shepard and Vakarian shutting the crew deck down._

_This mission had been different, though. The last mission. In all the chaos of the escape from the exploding Collector base and the ensuing celebration, Shepard and Garrus had both missed the chance for their post-mortem. The next stop was the Terminus systems, and dropping off any crew who didn't want to return to the Alliance. There were no more missions. Standing at the door now, she felt a pang of something in her chest. She tapped the door, not actually expecting Garrus to be inside. Not at this hour._

_The doors slid open and there he was, bottle in hand and surprise all over his face._

_They stared at each other for a long moment. The forward battery was darkened, weapons powered down for the first time in ages, which left Garrus awash in the glow from the hallway behind her, half-sitting on the central console. He was still wearing parts of his armor, greaves and boots, but his chestpiece and gauntlets were strewn on the floor. Something about the scene seemed familiar, but before she could puzzle that out she was distracted by the man himself._

_In all the time that she had known Garrus, she had never seen him out of armor. It was turian tradition to remain battle-ready at all times during war, and they had never known each other in peacetime. Upper body covered in a snug underarmor material, he was both more and less physically imposing. Less, because he seemed smaller without that broad shell of a chestpiece. More, because now she could see that he was made entirely of solid bone and muscle. Not an ounce of spare flesh. The forward jut of his breastbone swept gracefully up to the cowl of bone and plating that protectively encircled his neck. Shoulders shifted and bunched powerfully, slabs of muscle moved under rigid plates across his angled chest and tapered down to a narrow, corded waist. She felt her eyebrows climb; if this was common for turian male physiques, human females were in serious trouble._

_Garrus was getting an eyeful of her, too, steel-blue eyes wide and staring, ever-present visor gone for once. Belatedly, she realized how she must look, silhouetted by the hallway light in the ridiculous skintight Cerberus outfit._

_"Lights," she muttered, and the battery's service lights flicked on. She blinked in the new brightness, but Garrus just kept staring. turian eyes were naturally attuned to brighter illumination, and adjusted to changes in light exponentially faster than human eyes. No blinking for him. No closing his mouth, either._

_"Mandibles in, Vakarian," she drawled, propping one hand on a hip and swigging from her water bottle with the other. "This is just Cerberus's stupid idea of what PT gear should look like."_

_Now he blinked, snapped his mandibles shut. "Shepard! I just thought …" there was a tone to his subchords that she had never heard before, which was odd. She was sure she'd heard it all from him by now. He hefted a bottle, and she could tell by the glassy slosh that he'd already drunk half of it, "... it doesn't matter what I thought. Want?" He held the bottle out to her. "It's crap, but it's booze. Best I could get on a vigilante's salary. Safe for both of us."_

_His words echoed oddly in her ears, like she was hearing him say them twice. She covered her confusion by taking the bottle and tipping it back, chugging a mouthful of the worst wine she'd ever tasted. She could feel Garrus's eyes on her, probably waiting to see her choke on the stuff._

_It was a near thing, but she didn't choke. Coughing was not the same thing as choking. Garrus chuckled and took his bottle back. "Shouldn't you be sleeping like all the other good little humans?"_

_She shook her head, both to clear the lingering word-echoes and answer him. Tapped a finger against her temple. "Tick-tock, remember? Couldn't sleep if I wanted to, anyway. Didn't seem right to lay my head down without putting the Normandy to bed, first." She winced, stepping over to sit on the crate that was her usual perch, sprawling tired legs with a sigh, "I don't think that even makes sense."_

_Chin ducked downward, flaring the fringe of his headplates over his collar, Garrus made an agreeable rumble, "Sure it does. You're the commanding officer of this ship, and while you were away somebody hurt her. Broke into her and stole her crew. Got to reassure her - and yourself - that it won't happen again." His head turned slightly, sliding a glance in her direction as his voice dropped to a foreboding thrum, "... Even though it probably will."_

_She leaned back on her hands and quirked a brow at him, "That's what I like about you, Garrus. Always such a ray of sunshine."_

_He gave a dry chuckle, "I'm not the one you come to for sunshine, Shepard." Again, that strange note in the flanging of his voice. "I'm more of a truth and wisecracks guy. And the truth is: the price of being as good as you are is that enemies who can't hurt you directly will hurt any part of you that they can reach. And the Normandy is a part of you."_

_Hearing her private ruminations spoken aloud in that resonant voice made her heart thump. She had never told anyone about the kinship she had found with her ship while wandering Alchera, and it was … something … to think that he somehow knew. Her tone was guarded when she asked, "What do you mean?"_

_Twitch of a mandible said Garrus caught the tone, heft of a sigh said he was choosing his next words carefully. Arms folded under his breastbone, tensing some muscles and relaxing others, stretching the underarmor fabric across the bony ridge of his spine. "Shepard …" _

_{"Shepard …" an echo of the word a half-second behind. A different voice. Still Garrus, but so tired.}_

_"... Why do you think I keep the weapons so fine-tuned?"_

_"Because you like really big guns?" Shepard blinked hard, covering her disorientation with smartassery._

_"Yes. Because I like really big guns," he snarked back, eyes narrowed. "But also because I'm … well, I'm not a very good turian." She looked a question at him. He pushed away from the console to prowl the small space, "A good turian would build a small altar in his quarters, honoring the spirit of his military unit. But I haven't built one since I left my father's house. Praying to the spirit of C-Sec always seemed vaguely sacrilegious, and then on Omega I was just working too hard at keeping us all alive to take the time. Maybe if I had …" he shook his head, derailing that train of thought, "Anyway. When I came here, I didn't need to build an altar to the spirit of this unit. Because I was looking at it every day."_

_His gaze met hers from across the small room, and there was an unfamiliar weight to it. She shifted, leaning forward to brace elbows on knees, leaning into that weight. "Garrus," her voice was quiet, careful, "I'm not a spirit."_

_"No. You're not. You're flesh and bone and a whole mess of cybernetics," A mandible twitched, "in a very practical outfit." She lifted a lazy middle finger. He snorted, humor fading as quickly as it had come, "But everything fell apart when the Normandy went down. When you died ..." _

_{"... were dead." the other-Garrus gasped, voice flanging with fatigue and shock.}_

_"... And it didn't start coming back together until Cerberus brought you back to life. Both of you."_

_One long-fingered hand reached out to rest against the bulkhead, and Shepard knew he was talking about herself and the Normandy. Her head was starting to reel, from the bizarre echoing Garrus voices, from shock of realizing that his insight saw into the connection that had been her own private musing, from the draught of bad wine in her belly. She ducked her head, gaze resting on her hands while she tried to focus._

_"I know you don't like all the hero-worship crap." His subchords were amused in a tired sort of way, "But Shepard, this is _me_ talking. I don't worship your legend, I just know _you_. The soldier, the stubborn ass, the terrible dancer, the friend." That last word was spoken softly, and drew her gaze back up to meet his. Something warm stirred in her chest, rose into her throat at the sight of the quiet honesty in those normally cynical blue eyes. His voice went on, still soft and harmonic, "When Cerberus rebuilt you and the Normandy, they tied you together with invisible, unbreakable threads. If this unit has a spirit, it looks like the Normandy … but its name is Commander Shepard."_

_What could she possibly say to that? She could barely swallow past whatever emotion was crowding her throat, let alone speak. Garrus broke eye contact first, turning to step to the console and lean down, bracing his hands against it. He spoke without looking at her. "turians honor our military spirits by taking care of them. Praying to them. I can't pray to you; it's too weird. And I can't take care of you," again, those strange subchord tones that she'd heard when she first walked in. He cleared his throat to dispel them, went on with a growl, "But I can take care of the Normandy. Calibrate the hell out of her cannons, make her teeth as sharp as I can get them. This forward battery is my altar."_

_There was an ache in his voice that pulled at her. Her tall turian friend, proud spine bent over the console, over the altar that he would be losing all over again once they returned to Council space. Some impulse drove her to her feet, pushed her to close the distance between them and lay her hand on top of his. Her five fingers naturally shifted to align with his three, and for a moment they both just looked at their hands resting together on the console._

_"You do take care of me, Garrus," she said quietly, simply. "There's no way I could've survived this long without you." He shook his head slightly, not looking at her. She jostled his arm for emphasis, not willing to let him deny it, pressing down on his hand till she could feel the slender tendons under her fingers, through his glove. "I am so grateful, so _proud_, to know that once I get home you'll be out there somewhere. Watching my six."_

_A huff of breath that was almost a chuckle trailed into a rumbling hum. "Dunno if my scope can sight across half the galaxy. I mean, I'm good, but I'm not break-the-laws-of-physics good." He lifted his head, met her gaze from closer than they had ever physically been without huddling together in cover while bullets flew by. Something about the look in his eyes made her feel like there were bullets pinging in the quiet room. Bullets that she couldn't see. "Shepard, I …"_

_{"Shepard … I thought you were dead." the fatigue in his voice matched the slow weight of his movement, as though his bones ached. The shock in his subchords matched the surprise that dropped her jaw, threw her arms wide._

_"Garrus! What are you doing here?" She could have hugged the big turian, she was so damn glad to see him. Finally, someone she knew could be trusted completely. Someone who wasn't on the Cerberus payroll. But the presence of Jacob and Miranda at her back kept her in check. As intended._

_"Just keeping my skills sharp," there was a breathless quality to his voice, banter covering the way his eyes pored hungrily over every inch of her face, then flickered to the Cerberus operatives behind her as he shifted the rifle across his knees. "A little target practice."_

_A tiny shake of her head answered his implied question, turned down his silent offer to take Miranda and Jacob out right then and there. Words continued, to cover the real conversation, "You okay?"_

_One shoulder hitched up: message received, no killing the nice operatives, "Been better," he would stay vigilant, though, watch her back, "But it sure is good to see a friendly face."_

_His face. Tatters of flesh and glistening bone, blue blood gushing, splattering the floor, bubbling in his throat. Pain rolled his eyes, wide and wild and unfocused until she forced him to look at her. With her voice, she shouted for Miranda to call for evac. With her eyes, she ordered him to stay with her. Begged him. It was too soon to lose him, too cruel to take away the only soul in the galaxy she could trust. He tried to speak, jaw too shattered for words, but only subchords came out. Strange and sad, pained._

_Spotlight in her peripheral vision, and she tore her eyes away from Garrus with a snarl. If it was another gunship, there would be fiery hell to pay. But no, it was the evac shuttle. Medics were rushing in their direction, rushing out of the light._

_Jacob's voice, "Commander, they're here. You need to let him go so they can treat him. Commander!"}_

_"Commander?" A gentle voice, softly accented. Bright light shined in her eyes. "Shepard, can you hear me?"_

_"Why isn't she responding?" Garrus, demanding words laced with the jarring subchords of anxiety._

_Gentle voice again, calmly, "Garrus, for the last time. Muzzle it, or I will personally kick your arse out of my med bay." Dr. Chakwas, then._

_"Concern for Shepard commendable." A rapidfire, nasal voice. Not unkind. Mordin. "But interruptions unhelpful. Best to let us work."_

_Work? Cool weight at her temples, chest, the bend of her arm. Sensors adhered to her skin, beeping softly. She blinked against the light in her eyes, earning her an approving sound from Dr. Chakwas. "Looks like we're coming back 'round. Commander Shepard, can you hear me?"_

_The light moved, and she was able to focus. On the ceiling. She was lying on her back while people moved around her. Instinct snapped her upright, swung her legs over the side of the exam table, spike of panic clearing the last of the vagueness from her thoughts: it was too much like waking up in the Project Lazarus lab. The sensors on her chest shrilled a brief alarm, then fell silent as she found familiar faces around her and her heart rate calmed. Mordin and Dr. Chakwas nearby. Garrus behind them, whole and alive, not bleeding out under her hands._

_"What the hell happened?" she growled. For some reason, that made everyone in the room smile slightly._

_"If you're feeling well enough to grumble, then I'd say you're well on your way to right again." Dr. Chakwas said, poking at her omni-tool and making the sensors beep._

_Mordin answered her, in his prompt way, "Brief drop in blood pressure resulted in loss of consciousness. Likely due to combination of stress and exertion." He sniffed, "And cheap alcohol."_

_"You fainted," Garrus drawled, folding his arms and leaning back against the other exam table._

_She scowled at him. "I did not."_

_He lifted a single browplate, mimicking an expression he had seen all too often on her face. "Did so. Collapsed right there in the battery. I had to carry you in here, like some kind of swooning damsel in distress." The fact that he was teasing her about it said just how relieved he was, and maybe how badly she had scared him._

_"What Officer Vakarian claims is factually accurate, if somewhat hyperbolic," EDI's smooth voice spoke from the AI interface that popped up at Garrus's elbow. "When I detected the unsafe drop in your vital signs, I contacted Doctor Chakwas and Professor Solus and directed them to this med bay. Officer Vakarian carried you here from the forward battery."_

_She turned her scowl on the faceless orb of the AI. "You were monitoring my vitals?"_

_"I monitor the vital signs of every person aboard the Normandy at all times, Commander."_

_Oh. "Fine, okay, I fainted. No big deal. Anybody would've, after the day I've had."_

_Dr. Chakwas snorted, "You're hardly 'anybody', Shepard."_

_"That is accurate," EDI confirmed. Chatty little AI. "Your vitals frequently reflect stress levels that would hospitalize an average human. I have had to create a new standard scale by which to judge your condition in order to prevent you from skewing my comprehensive data for the crew."_

_"Nice going, Shepard," Garrus scolded, teeth flashing in a grin, "You broke the data."_

_Grumbling, she picked at the sensors on her arms, "Let's just get these things off of me so everyone can go back to bed."_

_"A moment, Commander," Mordin stepped in front of her, wide eyes dancing between the sensors at her temples, one tapered finger tapping his chin thoughtfully. "While physical signs were consistent with loss of consciousness, neurological signs were not. Very active. More like patterns of rapid-eye-movement dream activity than expected dormancy."_

_"Your eyes were wide open the whole time, Shepard," Garrus spoke with his slow cadence of thoughts in motion, "And moving. Like you were watching something only you could see."_

_Her mouth went dry. What they were describing sounded familiar. Her voice was thinner than she would have liked when she asked Garrus, "Did I … did I say anything? While I was … out."_

_"No." His gaze sharpened at the wariness in her tone. "Why?"_

_Mordin folded his arms, shaking his broken-crested head in reproach. "Did warn of potential hallucinatory effects of oral contact, Shepard."_

_Damn all quick-witted Salarians. For no reason that she could name, she desperately wanted to not be talking about this. Not with Garrus in the room. Maybe she could keep things vague ..."Yeah, but I've had ... oral contact ... several times, with no ill effect. This is the first time I've been hit with something like this."_

_Garrus looked back and forth between the two of them. "Oral contact with what?"_

_Bless him, Mordin ignored the question. "What was nature of hallucination? Visual? Auditory? Ah! Perhaps gustatory!"_

_"It was a … memory," she glanced at Garrus, who was scowling, trying to puzzle out what was going on. His face was scarred, but whole. Not shattered. "A full-sensory flashback, crystal clear. A little too real." Her hands were not covered in hot blue blood. She had to look down to be sure._

_Mordin made an intrigued, excited sound, his words a tumbling staccato, "Hmm! Will need sample. Run tests. Theorize interaction with cybernetics, possible re-route of hallucinogenic compounds to memory centers of brain. Effects could be long-term! Improved clarity of recall hardly undesirable. Loss of consciousness problematic. Hmm. Would advise against further oral contact until testing completed."_

_"Hallucinogenic?" Garrus asked, dubious, "That wine was cheap, not psychadelic. I can get the bottle if you need a sample, though."_

_"No, no," Mordin wave a dismissive hand. "Not wine. Need salivary sample. From Thane."_

_So much for vague. The sudden heat in her cheeks was not a blush. Commander Shepard did not blush, especially when she had absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. Garrus let out a dry chuckle, tipping his chin down and scratching at the underside of his fringe; the turian version of blushing, which he also certainly was not doing._

_"A-a-a-a-and that's my cue to leave," his words were just a bit too bright, his subchords jangling, "I'll just go roust Thane out of Life Support and send him over, then go find something that needs calibrating."_

_In for a penny …"He's not in Life Support," Shepard admitted._

_Garrus lifted that browplate again, "Then where ..?"_

_EDI piped up, ever helpful, "At present, Thane Krios is asleep in Commander Shepard's cabin."_

_Garrus looked at the ceiling, his mandibles pulled in tight in the expression she had come to recognize as his poker face. Whatever he was thinking, he was trying not to show it. Shepard wanted to crawl in a hole or shoot something. Or both. It hadn't been that long ago that Garrus had been regaling her with tales of reach and flexibility on board a turian vessel, and that had been funny. __Why was this so weird?_

_Merciless as any computer, EDI went on, __"I can wake Thane and inform him that his presence is requested in the med bay, if it will help to avoid any undue awkwardness."_

_"I do believe that ship has flown, EDI," Dr. Chakwas stepped in crisply, saving them all. "But thank you for your consideration. Please do invite Thane to join us."_

_Garrus was slipping out the door when Shepard's voice stopped him, "Vakarian! Good work, today. And thanks. For … everything." It was lame, too little and, if the odd ache in her chest was any indication, maybe too late._

_He half-turned, looking back at her over the curve of his cowl. Simple words were made complicated by those strange subchords again, more familiar this time. "Any time, Shepard."_

Thump-thump-thump-thump. The run went on, had gone one for who knew how long, and the steady machine of her body was starting to feel the strain. Damned if she would be the first to call for a rest, though.

James and the other beefcake Marine had moved to the back of the group, their stamina not quite up to the unflagging ridiculousness of their slimmer squadmates. Shepard would smirk if she wasn't suffering, herself. She wondered what EDI would think of her superhuman vitals now.

And just like that, with a pang like a cramp in her soul, she missed her ship.

"Hey, LT," she called over her shoulder.

"Ma'am?" James did an admirable job of not sounding winded.

"Any chance we can swing by the airfield?" She tried for nonchalant, but it was hard to sound casual when she was huffing.

"No can do, Commander. You're cleared for outdoor PT in the Commons only. Vice-Admiral Williams barely allowed that." He paused for breath. She caught the eye of the tall male Marine next to her; they shared a smirk at Vega's expense. "Dunno what you did to piss him off."

Got his family killed. A Williams in a command position who had a hate for the name of Shepard was probably related to Ash. Not everyone understood about what had happened on Virmire. Tough calls were tough for a reason. But these kids didn't need to hear about that. "Just let me know if that changes, Vega. I promise I won't commandeer her. Just want to say hi."

"Yes ma'am."

After a moment, the other giant Marine keeping pace with James behind her tried to ask a question in a quiet voice, but a man that size simply can't get his voice to drop below a certain volume. She could hear him clearly. "LT, who's she talkin' about?"

"Her ship, pendejo. The Normandy." There was a reverence in his rough voice when he said the name of her ship that made her like him better, and sent a spear of longing through her gut.

Her mind filled with useless worry. About her ship, being busily retrofitted by perfectly competent Alliance techs. About her crew, scattered across the stars and perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. She wished more than anything to be back aboard, standing behind the helmsman, feeling the subtle vertigo of a mass relay's pull. The Normandy (and everything she represented) was so close, docked at the nearby airfield, but might as well be lightyears away for all that she could reach it. With the rush of frustrated longing came a loss of focus, and she could hear her breath start to wheeze in her throat like the labored rattle of a dying animal.

Or a wounded turian.

Context was everything. Craving something she needed, but couldn't touch. Something that made her feel whole and alive and in command of her own existence, but she couldn't have it because she had let it go, entrusted it to the care of another. Wishing. Longing. And knowing she could only wait and hope. Unable to speak of it, but sound came out of her anyway. A sound like strange subchords from a familiar turian.

She had heard them for the first time when he had taken that rocket to the face, looked up at her and tried to talk through a mangled jaw. Those pained tones. She had not heard them again until that last night, strange out of the context of bloodshed and loss, now obvious in the clarity of recall. Once, when he had first seen her in the battery doorway, a practically nude shadow ...

_"Shepard! I just thought ... it doesn't matter what I thought."_

And again, when he referred to their friendship ...

_"I'm not the one you come to for sunshine, Shepard." _  
_"And I can't take care of you. … But I can take care of the Normandy."_

… or what their friendship was not.

The realization hit her like a punch in the face. Shocked her out of cadence entirely. She stumbled, upper body pitching forward while her legs tried to remember which one was supposed to move next.

It was the only thing that saved her from the sniper.


	6. Chapter 6 - All In The Timing

Time slowed down for Shepard when there were bullets in the air. Always had. As soon as her instincts pinged danger and her senses started pouring in data, she would sink into a sort of honey-colored haze. A slow sweet spot where she could parse out every little thing that was happening. It was a unique talent that had popped up during live fire drills in basic training, and Cerberus's tinkering with her adrenal glands had only enhanced the effect.

So when she stumbled over a thought and a bullet split the air inches behind her head, she had the space between one heartbeat and the next to react. All the time in the world.

The familiar honey-haze rose, and she welcomed it like a long lost friend. Her left ear caught the meaty impact of a high velocity bullet into flesh; the tall Marine at her side had taken the hit. Her right ear caught the crack of a rifle, almost like the tinny cough of an M-98 Widow but not quite. Her mind measured the delay between impact and rifle report, numbers pouring through sniper calculations that bore the rumbling signature of Thane's voice. Her eyes found cover positions: a pair of benches about twenty meters away, or a clump of trees immediately to the side of the path.

Decision made, she began to turn. Her right ear picked up the sub-audible whistle of more bullets incoming. Two more rifle cracks. In sequence, not overlapping. One shooter. Hmm. In that split second within a split second, her decision changed from getting herself to cover to getting the man next to her out of the line of fire.

Right boot planted on the path, tendons in the knee complaining as she forced the forward momentum of her stumble to become a sidelong tackle into the wounded Marine. He was tall, she was short; her shoulder took him in the gut and bent him in half as she bore him to the ground. Above them, she could hear the angry buzz of projectiles finding air instead of flesh.

The honey-haze receded, and she let it go with a pang. She hit the ground at normal speed with a length of bloodied man under her. The world caught up as she grimly calculated the time it took to reload a sniper rifle versus the time it would take her to drag a grown man across the brief distance to the trees. It was going to be awfully close.

She was just rising to a crouch when a shadow fell over her. There was barely time to recognize Vega's growl of "Sorry, Commander" before she found herself flung over his massive shoulder like a sack of pissed-off potatoes and bounced mercilessly as he bolted for cover. Shepard knew better than to bury her elbow in the back of a man's skull when he was just trying to get her to safety, but that didn't keep her from wanting to do it.

Vega dropped her boots-first behind the trees, then planted a shovel-sized hand on her shoulder and pushed her down into a crouch. Pistol in hand and broad back braced against a tree trunk, he stood over her. Shepard knew this posture: classic protect-the-noncombatant stuff. It was all suddenly funny; honestly, when was the last time that she had been considered a noncombatant? Probably right around the same time that she had last brought fists to a gunfight. Damn, she hated being unarmed.

The thing about opening fire on an Alliance facility is: nobody panics. There was none of the screaming and chaos that might come from a civilian scene. All across the idyllic city park they had been jogging through, she could see folks dropping footballs and abandoning picnics, diving into cover. Nobody pulled sidearms, though. Seemed Vega's squad had the only guns in the vicinity.

One heartbeat of silence. Two. It was long past the time that she would have started barking orders, but this was not her squad. She didn't even have a comm link. James was in charge of this detail, but he hadn't said a word since manhandling her. Something had frozen the big Lieutenant.

"James," she tapped his knee, "get your wounded over here. I'll check him while you call for medics." No response. She frowned, her voice filling with the sharp punch of command, "Lieutenant Vega!"

That seemed to get through. A tremor ran through James, sending goosebumps down his arms and freeing him from whatever had held him silent. He tapped into comms, his words calm and authoritative, "Finch, get Montgomery to my position. Lee and Buckley, cover him." Tapped again, "Vega to Command, we have sniper fire on the Commons. Package is secure. One wounded so far. I need a medic out here, ASAP. Recommend sweeps at twelve-and-fifteen-hundred meters north-northwest of my nav-point to locate the shooter."

Shepard grunted, half annoyed and half impressed. Annoyed, because the "package" was almost certainly her. Impressed, because the distance that he called out matched the result of her own mental calculations. If he was operating on par with the equations taught to her by a master assassin, then Vega was good. He would be excellent someday if he could get over whatever had made him freeze up.

The other beefcake Marine (the improbably-named Finch) hauled the wounded man across the grass and dropped him at Shepard's feet. He took up a position mirroring James, and Shepard found herself suddenly under the vigilant protection of a quarter-ton of muscled manflesh. She felt ridiculous.

At least there was a good distraction. She tuned out Vega's comm-chatter with his other squad members and got to work on the one that was bleeding. Hands deft and firm, she took quick stock of his wounds. The bullet had pierced his biceps completely, then kept on travelling to bore cleanly through his ribs and punch a hole the size of her fist out through his back. Shepard growled under her breath. That hole had been intended for her skull.

"James, got any medi-gel on you?" She was no doctor, but she was pretty sure there shouldn't be bubbles in the blood coming out of his back.

"Just a first-aid pack," he answered, never taking his eyes off of their surroundings, "Left thigh pocket."

Blood-slicked fingers left livid streaks on the dull grey fabric of his fatigues as she dug into the pocket for the medi-gel. Little first-aid packs like this one weren't intended for massive repairs, but it might hold him over till med-evac could find them. Popping the seal on the cannister, she applied it directly to the bubbling back wound and held her breath. If the hole didn't close up, odds were good that his lung would fill with blood before the medics arrived. Shepard made a face as the flesh at the center of the wound started oozing together like wet red clay being molded by invisible hands. As many times as she had used the stuff herself, it was always a little unsettling to watch medi-gel in action. At least the bubbling stopped.

Not so for the bleeding, however. "Vega, Finch, give me your shirts."

James blinked. "Ma'am?"

"Medi-gel took care of the worst of it, but he's still bleeding from four places. I need bandages. Either give me your shirts, or I'll have to use my own."

The threat of Commander Shepard going topless was motivating; Vega and his doppelganger took turns stripping out of their shirts and staying on armed lookout. In short order, she had a makeshift bandage on the man's arm and both hands pressing pads into the wounds on the torso. Blood was soaking the white fabric, but at least it was doing it slowly.

Shepard took stock of her situation. No gun, no armor. Shot at, but not shot. Arms half wrapped around one Marine while two more stood protectively over her like the galaxy's most muscular, barechested mother hens. Garrus was going to laugh his ass off when he heard about this.

Garrus. She shook her head, felt a hum rise in her throat that echoed the discordant tones of his voice on that last night. Longing. What wouldn't she give to have him at her back right at the moment? Returning sniper fire, anticipating her thoughts so well that she never had to order him. Memory tried to sweep her into its thrall, but she squashed it ruthlessly. There was a time and place for that, and this was neither

With a quiet sigh, she settled in to wait. Might as well make small talk, keep the injured guy conscious.

Tipping her head, she chatted up the man whose blood was drying on her hands. "Hey kid. What's your name?"

He looked up at her with blue eyes gone dilated with pain, unclenched his jaw and answered with admirable stoicism, "Montgomery, ma'am."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Shepard." For some reason, he laughed a little at that. Shepard let out a relieved huff; if he could laugh, his lungs were probably clear. "You're gonna be fine. Looks like a through-and-through. And through, again. One bullet, four holes. You're a damn overachiever, Montgomery."

"Hoo-rah, ma'am." His gaze slipped past her to the two shirtless giants looming over them. A weak smile stretched over gritted teeth. "At least the view is nice."

Finch blushed so intensely that the red covered him from brow to bellybutton, but he held his position in silence. Vega, however, didn't have an ounce of blush in him as he put on an offended air, "Hey, now. I'm feeling downright objectified, here."

Shepard snorted, and was gratified to see a smirk curve Vega's cheek even before she spoke. Chipping away at that mask. "Can you blame him, LT? The man's injured, not dead."

Montgomery chuckled, then groaned against the pain. "Think my ribs are broken."

"Probably," Shepard eased the pressure slightly on the wound over his ribcage. No sense in causing more pain than he was already in. "That bullet was moving awfully fast."

Vega glanced down at her, "Think the shooter's done?"

She looked up to answer him, and they both saw it at the same time. There in the trunk of the tree that Shepard was hunkered behind, bright with the splintered interior of living wood, were two fresh bullet holes. One was slightly higher than the other. In unison, Vega and Shepard turned the follow the trajectory from the tree trunk to two fresh gouges in the dirt several meters away. Having missed their intended target, those last two bullets had just kept flying till they found another one. Vega let out a low, impressed whistle.

"Sure hope so," Shepard drawled, "otherwise, we're gonna need to find bigger trees to hide behind."


End file.
